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Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents; in a Series of Letters from
Various Parts of Europe

LETTER I

June 19th, 1780. Shall I tell you my dreams? To give an account of
my time is doing, I assure you, but little better. Never did there
exist a more ideal being. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes,
and, through its medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both
their colours and forms are apt to delude me. This is a rare
confession, say the wise, for a traveller to make: pretty accounts
will such a one give of outlandish countries: his correspondents
must reap great benefit, no doubt, from such purblind observations.
But stop, my good friends; patience a moment! I really have not the
vanity of pretending to make a single remark, during the whole of my
journey: if be contented with my visionary way of gazing, I am
perfectly pleased; and shall write away as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B.,
Mr. C., and a million others whose letters are the admiration of the
politest circles.

All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened my eyes
to take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I
was passing; then closed them again; transported myself back to my
native hills; thought I led a choir of those I loved best through
their shades; and was happy in the arms of illusion. The sun set
before I recovered my senses enough to discover plainly the
variegated slopes near Canterbury, waving with slender birch trees,
and gilt with a profusion of broom. I thought myself still in my
beloved solitude, but missed the companions of my slumbers. Where
are they? Behind yon blue hills, perhaps, or t'other side of that
thick forest. My fancy was travelling after these deserters, till we
reached the town; vile enough o' conscience, and fit only to be
passed in one's sleep. The moment after I got out of the carriage,
brought me to the cathedral; an old haunt of mine. I had always
venerated its lofty pillars, dim aisles, and mysterious arches. Last
night they were more solemn than ever, and echoed no other sound than
my steps. I strayed about the choir and chapels, till they grew so
dark and dismal, that I was half inclined to be frightened; looked
over my shoulder; thought of spectres that have an awkward trick of
syllabling men's names in dreary places; and fancied a sepulchral
voice exclaiming: "Worship my toe at Ghent; my ribs at Florence; my
skull at Bologna, Sienna, and Rome. Beware how you neglect this
order; for my bones, as well as my spirit, have the miraculous
property of being here, there, and everywhere." These injunctions,
you may suppose, were received in a becoming manner, and noted all
down in my pocket book by inspiration (for I could not see), and
hurrying into the open air, I was whirled away in the dark to
Margate. Don't ask what were my dreams thither: nothing but
horrors, deep vaulted tombs, and pale, though lovely figures,
extended upon them; shrill blasts that sung in my ears, and filled me
with sadness, and the recollection of happy hours, fleeting away,
perhaps for ever! I was not sorry, when the bustle of our coming in
dispelled these phantoms. The change, however, in point of scenery
was not calculated to dissipate my gloom; for the first object in
this world that presented itself, was a vast expanse of sea, just
visible by the gleamings of the moon, bathed in watery clouds; a
chill air ruffled the waves. I went to shiver a few melancholy
moments on the shore. How often did I try to wish away the reality
of my separation from those I love, and attempt to persuade myself it
was but a dream!

This morning I found myself more cheerfully disposed, by the queer
Dutch faces with short pipes and ginger bread complexions that came
smirking and scraping to get us on board their respective vessels;
but, as I had a ship engaged for me before, their invitations were
all in vain. The wind blows fair; and, should it continue of the
same mind a few hours longer, we shall have no cause to complain of
our passage... Continue reading book >>